


Well-met on the road

by telemachus



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before the events in "The Hobbit", and may help explain why Gimli was left behind by Thorin, and why Gimli hates elves..........</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well-met on the road

As they leave the village, almost sneaking out in the half-light of dawn, needing to get out of sight before the first forge-fires are lit and they are missed, Gimli can’t help wondering if this is really such a good idea as it seemed last night.  
Last night, it seemed an escapade like so many others, fun, exciting, sure to be forgiven if it was found out. Now, he can’t help thinking this might count as a bit more serious. Have his cousins really thought this through? Can he trust them?

Got my axe. My first proper axe. Not a child-size one anymore. Proper axe.  
Got mail on. Proper set of mail. Made by mother, but that’s ok – it’s not child-mail, mother makes the best mail.  
Got helmet. Proper helmet.  
Must be everything, right?  
Can’t be anything else.  
They’d have thought of it, right?  
I mean, Fili is grown-up, right? Even Kili, nearly is. If they say we’ve got everything, we have. They know what they’re doing, right?  
Must do.  
It’ll be fine. Going off to meet their uncle. Be a good surprise for him. And father.  
And Fili says Droin can’t come. He’s too young. So must be ok. Must be planned out.  
What could go wrong? 

Well, somewhere inside, Gimli knows his mother would say a lot can go wrong if those two are involved. But he doesn’t want to think about that. So he doesn’t.  
And the three of them are well away before they are missed. Out of sight along the track, heading for the Road. And even Droin doesn’t know where they’re headed. He knew they were planning something, knew he was left out – always left out, poor Droin, always the little one, always left behind. But they hadn’t even told him what he was left out of this time. Hadn’t gloated like they normally do.  
So when their mothers ask him, he doesn’t have to look guilty, doesn’t have to try and convince them he’s innocent – this time he is. Not his fault.  
But by then, the three are already finding their plans are not as good as they hoped.

“You don’t know which way Bree is?” I thought Fili knew everything. He always says he does. Says he’s been everywhere.  
“It’s along the road. One way.”  
“Or the other.” – I hate it when they do this speaking in chorus thing. They’re not even twins. They just do it to show off that they're brothers. Just because they’ve got each other.  
I don’t care. Don’t want a brother.  
At least I’ve got a proper axe. Not some silly sword. Or a bow. How silly is that? My father says an axe is the only weapon for a dwarf. He should know, right? He knows everything. Bet he’d know which way to go.  
“Well, what are we going to do, then?” I ask.  
“Pick a direction, I guess,” Fili says.  
“Just choose – left or right?” Kili seems to think it’s all a big joke.  
But I suddenly remember – “Father said, last time they came back, they would have to time it better next time, because the sun was in their eyes all evening on the way home. So they must have been heading west. So we need to go east. Towards the sun, this time of day.”  
They look at me, as though I’ve done something amazing, and grinning, do that annoying speaking in chorus thing again.  
“Well done Gimmers,”  
“-it was worth bringing him – you were right, brother.”  
“I’m always right, brother.”  
I hate that. Hate the nickname too. But, I’m here. Droin isn’t. And I knew something they didn’t. Hah.  
One day, they’ll have to take me seriously. One day, I’ll be a dwarf worth knowing. 

But for now, Gimli is just the little one.  
They turn east, along the Road. Heading the right way. But the Road attracts a lot of things. Not just peaceable dwarves.

Hooves behind us. We all turn, startled. But it’s just a man. In a hurry, riding a horse – not like the ones we see at the forge, brought to be shod by the farmers round us. This is – thinner – more streamlined – built for speed. I suppose it’s beautiful, if a horse can be beautiful. It’s certainly in a hurry. The man on it doesn’t even glance down at us. He looks exhausted – but the horse looks fresh. He’s wearing some kind of uniform – black with a white tree on it.  
I don’t know where he’s come from, or where he’s going, but I suppose he must be carrying messages in that bag. I wonder who from? To who? Where?  
That must be why the horse is fresh, but the man not – he must have changed horse, but there is only one errand-rider.  
I don’t suppose I’ll ever know where he rides in such haste. But I would like to know more of a land where the white tree is the sign of their king – for surely only a king could command such speed.  
We continue on our way. The sun is high now, and I am beginning to wonder just how far we will have to go before we meet uncle and father. But I don’t want to be the one to ask.  
“Fili, must we go much further?”hah. Kili broke first. Good.  
“Probably. I don’t know,” he hesitates, “but you don’t want to be found sitting by the road waiting to be collected, do you brother?”  
There’s no answer to that. So we trudge on. Right now, I’m wondering if perhaps that light bow isn’t a better weapon for journeys than this heavy axe. 

They walk all day. They have eaten much of what they brought, and they are all beginning to realise that they have miscalculated somewhere. There is no hope of reaching home before night, even if they were to turn now – all they can do is keep going, hoping to find somewhere to camp. Hoping that they have come the right way, hoping that they haven’t somehow missed the two old dwarves they hoped to meet.  
And then, as evening is falling, they hear more hooves behind them. But these are different, lighter, a whole company of horses, not racing but trotting gaily along. And their riders are singing.

Again we turn to look. But this time, Fili spits, and they both turn back, shrugging their disgust.  
I can’t help but stare. Elves. I have never seen elves before. Or heard their strange, almost unearthly singing. It’s beautiful. They are beautiful.  
But Kili cuffs my head, pulls me away to stop looking, even as they pass us, a vision of white horses, and golden hair gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun.  
“Don’t ever be staring at them, Gimmers.”  
“Mahumab elves. Don’t be looking at them, Gimmers. They can weave a spell with their voices.”  
“Enchant you.”  
“And you can’t trust them.”  
“Can't trust them to die if you cut their heads off.”  
I don’t understand. I was only looking. They were pretty. Only listening to the song.  
But my cousins are glaring. They must be right, mustn’t they? And they start telling me what their uncle has told them.  
“The day the dragon came. Swept down upon the mountain he did.”  
“All of Dale ruined.”  
“All our army killed.”  
“All our people running, homeless.”  
“And the elf-king saw it all.”  
“Saw it all from high on the other side of the valley”  
“Saw it all from his dammed elk”  
“Saw it all from where he was safe with his army”  
“Army of elves with bows – they could have taken down the dragon”  
“But they turned away.”  
“They turned and rode away.”  
“Left our people homeless.”  
“Our kingdom in ruins”  
“Left uncle to lead us to this life.”  
“This life of toil”  
“This life of working for peasants”  
“When we were the most skilled craftsmen the world has ever seen.”  
It sounds as though they are chanting a story they have heard over and over from their uncle. Sounds as though they believe it without questioning. But I don’t think that’s quite what I was told.  
“But, hadn’t Thror offended the elves? Refused to return all the jewels their king left to be worked? Took more payment than they agreed?”  
Shouldn’t have said that, Gimli. These two are not open to discussion. Uncle Thorin is always right to them. I can see I am going to lose – so I give in. Apologise. But I wonder who is right. One day I would like to hear the elves side of this. One day I would like to meet this elf-king, to compare him to their uncle – the so-prickly, so-stern, so-always-right Thorin Oakenshield.  
The elves were beautiful. Whatever else they were. 

But now, now it is time for the dwarves to make camp for the night. There is a hollow, near the road, but just far enough to the side to be sheltered. There is a spring, and Fili gathers firewood, while Gimli, who is indeed his father’s son, starts and tends a fire. Kili has slipped off with his bow, and brought back rabbits enough to roast for supper and leave some for breakfast. They are not ready to think about tomorrow, but they know they will have to talk soon about whether they keep going, hoping to meet the older dwarves, or whether they would be best to go home now, and hope that returning of their own accord will mean forgiveness.  
They still aren’t sure they are going the right way – the man they saw was in too great haste to ask, and the brothers wouldn’t speak to elves.  
But even though this is the first time they have been out alone at night, they are not completely foolish. They set a watch, and that saves their lives.  
It is that darkest hour before dawn when the attack comes. It is Kili who is watching then, and fortunately he sees the first orc come sneaking down towards the embers of the fire. Before he can even think, his uncle-trained reactions step in, and he has an arrow in his bow, aimed and released. The orc falls dead, but Kili knows that where there is one, there will be more, and is waking his companions and fitting another arrow ready even before it has finished its death-throws.  
Then begins a battle, all the more desperate for its almost silence – the young dwarves are not experienced enough to know the value of war-cries for putting heart into themselves, scaring the enemy, and perhaps calling for aid. If there was any aid out here in the wilds to call.  
Kili’s bow is working as he has never worked it before – he is wondering how many arrows there are left in his quiver, and whether he really can ‘make each one count’ as Mister Dwalin has so often told him.  
Fili is using his sword, cut, thrust, parry, bring another one down, all the time aware that he must protect his brother. His little brother, who he has brought into this. He must look after him – he knows from his uncle’s pain what it is to live with the knowledge of a brother dead from your fault. He will not let Kili die for his impetuous decision to come out here.  
And Gimli? Gimli is swinging his axe, twirling it, making a safe space around himself, and killing any orc which comes close enough – all the time calling out his score as his father has told him – to encourage himself and the brothers, and perhaps daunt these orcs.  
But how many orcs are there? What is it they think they will get from these three that can make it worth such a cost of their own lives? Is it really just mindless hate?  
Or, unseen, is there a malevolent larger orc, watching, sniffing out the blood of Durin’s line? A pale orc?  
The battle continues, light is coming - but these are no trolls or tiny mountain goblins to run away when dawn breaks. These are big true orcs. They do not like strong sunlight, but the early weak light of a winter’s day is no hindrance to them.  
And the young dwarves, in their first real battle, are beginning to tire. Kili’s quiver is almost empty, Fili’s sword is drooping, and even Gimli’s axe is beginning to move more slowly, his score mounting only hesitantly now, when suddenly there is a rain of arrows flying over their shoulders.  
Past them. From behind, the arrows fly into the orcs. With almost unerring aim, they hit, and orc after orc tumbles to the ground. Those left look up, onto the high ground that leads to the road, and one calls out something in their own foul tongue; “Karanzol” it cries, and all that are left flee, howling in terror.  
Not quite believing what has just happened, not quite sure what they will see, the dwarves turn slowly, half-lowering their weapons, but whatever they expected, it was not this.  
This band of elves, standing, bows still outstretched and ready. The leader, a tall auburn elf steps forward, and holding her bow at her side, places right-hand on heart, bows elf-fashion, and speaks,  
“Mae govannen,” she pauses, seeming to expect an answer, but the dwarves are still too stunned by this apparition, “I say again, well-met. The yrch are gone now, and it is in my heart that you should not stay here – they are wily. We are elves of the Wood, I am Tauriel. Come with us and break your fast – perhaps you will tell us where you are travelling, and we may even be able to advise you, for it seems to me that it is a long way from here that I would expect to find one of Durin’s folk.”  
The brothers look at one another, but before they can speak to reject this courtesy, Gimli answers,

“Well-met indeed, mistress. I am Gimli, son of Gloin, these are Fili and Kili sister-sons of Thorin, and I think we must all be at your service for this morning’s work. Truly, we are not so far from our home as you seem to think, for we left only last morning – we journey towards Bree with hope of meeting our elders on their homeward road,” I glance at the brothers, but they are still open-mouthed and dim-witted as fish, so I continue, “I thank you for your offer, but I think it is perhaps best we continue in the hope of making that meeting soon – for I do not wish another night like this last, even were it to bring another sight as beauteous to behold as the Lady Tauriel.”  
She smiles, and I wonder again at such beauty in a being so fierce and skilled in deadly combat,  
“Let it not be said that Gimli, son of Gloin, is lacking in courtesy or fair words. But, for the sake of my own honour, I would not have you go further, tired from your battle as you are, without at the least taking some refreshment. And indeed, if you will be guided by my counsel, you will journey at least a few miles with us, until we have all put some distance between these yrch and ourselves. For this does not look to me like some small chance raiding party – I ask you to think whether there is some reason these great orcs could hate you so? For whether you know it or not, I deem that they had some fell purpose beyond hunger in such relentless attacks against three such doughty dwarves.”  
I am defeated, not only by her beauty and fair words, but by this thought which seems to me to be only too likely. It doesn’t make sense for so many to attack so relentlessly. There must be some purpose – but I can’t think what, and if my cousins can, they are keeping very quiet. And indeed, perfecting their fish-impersonations.  
Under the impassive gaze of these elves, we gather our few possessions, (not forgetting the rabbits), and follow them to their camp. If camp can be used for such a sight. It is definitely more of a bower.  
I am confused. They shot so well, so fiercely. She spoke so kindly, courteously. They seem such warriors. And yet, this place of fair linen spread upon grass, cushions placed for seats, beautifully crafted cups, and food such as I have only had at great feast-days – this is a road-side camp?  
What are these elves?  
How can a dwarf understand them?  
My cousins seem not bothered by these questions. Their uncle has already given them answers. I suspect the words “effete, thieves, liars, deceivers” may have been used. Certainly my cousins are not at their best – they are very quiet.  
But I, I cannot help but be intrigued. I find I am listening to the song, enjoying the food – and, be honest Gimli, I like the comfort. And the beauty of these elves.  
Even with all this, it is by no means late in the day when we start out again. This time, surrounded by elves. We have agreed to stay with them at least until we are a mile or two hence. Lady Tauriel seems to feel it would be a personal affront were we to run in to trouble so soon after she has saved us, and I can’t say I am sorry to have a little extra protection. 

And so the unlikely group heads on their way. But, fate is kind, and well before noon, Tauriel agrees that the dwarves are far enough from obvious danger that they can travel at their own pace – and her party can move on at theirs. It is hard to be sure who is more relieved, the brothers or the elves.

“Blimey, Gimmers! Never knew you had it in you,” it’s Fili,  
“Yeah, that was good talking. Don’t know how you could do it. Acting like that with them mahumab elves,” and Kili.  
It’s nice to be praised. But – all I did was be polite. They had just saved our lives. What else could I do?  
Well, I suppose I can guess what their uncle would say. But, I dare to think it, perhaps their uncle isn’t always right. I might have to talk to mother about this – father will never hear a word against Thorin Oakenshield. Although I sometimes suspect he thinks them.  
And so, we go on. I am really hoping we meet my father and their uncle soon. I don’t want to camp out another night. Oh, I will. And I won’t say anything. A dwarf does not complain. A dwarf keeps going. But I don’t want to. 

As they walk, they relive the battle, as they have not had chance to do among the elves. Each is still alight with the fire of successful combat, each is still proud of his skill, and ready to be generous about the others.  
“Good shooting, Kili,” Gimli says,  
“Yes, well done little brother – and for waking us so fast,” Fili is generous with praise for his beloved brother, but also, “and Gimli – your father will be proud to hear your score. Rarely have I seen you work your axe better.”  
Gimli smiles, and were his beard a little less grown, it might be possible to discern a blush;  
“But your sword-work was good, cousin,” he says, adding the highest praise he knows, “Mister Dwalin would be pleased.”  
“Maybe,” but the blond dwarf seems unsure, “he might say it was a battle we had no need to fight. No reason to be there.”  
“He might,” his brother agrees, “but uncle won’t. Uncle says no such thing as a battle that doesn’t need fighting.”  
They all laugh.  
And it as they are laughing that they see, up ahead, approaching them, a small pony-cart. And leading the pony;  
“Father!” shouts Gimli, and begins to run. His cousins exchange glances, and then pelt after him, calling out “Uncle! Uncle! We came to find you! And we found orcs! And we killed lots! Uncle, wait til you hear!”  
The older dwarves are much surprised to see these three – but perhaps not as surprised as all that. These three are, after all, always in trouble, always up to something – and really, seeking out family is not the worst crime they have committed in the last month even.  
As the young dwarves turn and start to retrace their steps, this time bouncing with excitement, they tell all their adventures. Well, nearly all. With one thought, they find they are avoiding mention of the elves, and concentrating on the battle itself.  
Although they have now the pony cart, they seem to be moving faster with the more experienced travellers than they did alone, and it is still some two hours until dusk when they pass the site of their camp last night. Then it is that Kili makes a mistake;  
“This is where it happened – come and see uncle, you will be able to see how many we killed – then you can tell Mister Dwalin how well we did – he won’t believe us otherwise.”

I go cold. I know what Thorin Oakenshield will see – and I can see from the way Fili blinks that he too has realised – elf-arrows – he is quicker than I, and perhaps knows his uncle better;  
“No, we do not want to delay – we would be best past this place and much further on before dark. Uncle does not need proof – he knows we are trustworthy.”  
But ‘Uncle’ looks dubious.  
“Trustworthy you two may be – trustworthy your son is, Gloin, but still I would see the place of this great battle. I would know what sort of orcs these are to fight so long and strong. And I would give you chance to gather your arrows Kili – they take time and skill to make, and often many can be reused. We have time to look and still be well away before evening falls.”  
And neither Fili nor I can think of more to say, not without it being obvious we have something to hide.  
At first, I hope we will get away with it. Kili busies himself collecting arrows, while we show the ones we killed up close. But it is uncle who is too observant;  
“Kili, you are missing many arrows from those orcs further off,” but then he frowns, “Kili, how many arrows did you bring with you? There seem many more than you could possibly have shot alone.”  
Father looks at me, and I see he begins to suspect – my anguish must show, for he tries to cover;  
“Thorin, we do not have much time, if the boys truly battled so long as they say, Kili could have hit that many easily. And I think his quiver is full enough to get us home – let us move on now.” Something in his eye tells me he will have the truth of this later, but I would rather that than have to tell all right here, right now. I know my cousins will manage to make it my fault somehow, but father will at least listen.  
But he is not persuasive enough – I am not sure anyone is persuasive enough, ever, to get Thorin Oakenshield to leave hold of a notion.  
He walks over to one of the orcs – and as bad luck would have it, it is one of the elf-shot orcs. He bends, and as we three exchange looks, picks up the arrow, with a curse;  
“Durin’s beard, boys, what sort of fool do you take me for?”  
“No fool, uncle,”  
“Not a fool at all, uncle,”  
“Sorry sir,” – I can’t believe I’m doing the chorus thing. But I want to stay in with the cousins – really don’t want it to be my fault.  
Thorin Oakenshield turns to father;  
“This is elf-work, or I am no dwarf. The truth this time, boys. Now.”  
And I can see why he could be a king. There is no way I have the wit to lie, or the strength to look in his eyes and hold to it. Not when he glares like that.  
“Well, there were elves,” Fili starts,  
“they came up behind us, sudden-like,” Kili continues,  
“all else was as we said,” I add,  
“Except?” and with just that word, just that look, with their Uncle Thorin’s eyes raking us, my cousins, just as I feared, remember my part.  
“And then Gimli talked nice to them,” thanks, Kili,  
“even told the lady-elf she was pretty,” and you, Fili,  
“agreed we should go with them,” don’t remember you putting up objections Kili,  
“made us eat with them,” don’t recall it taking a lot of persuasion when you saw the food, Fili,  
“even made us walk partway along the road with them.”Kili finishes. As though having the sense to be polite, and stay with an armed band was so bad.  
Thorin Oakenshield just looks at me, scorn in every line of his face, and then I see him turn the same expression on father;  
“This is the best your son can do, Gloin? So much for your courtesy. So much for your faith.”  
And he turns away in disgust. 

The rest of the journey home is not a happy one. Gloin and Gimli walk with the pony and cart, while Thorin stalks ahead, his nephews following him, trying to pretend they are not also in disgrace. But Gloin and Gimli know they are in far more trouble. This is not going to be forgotten in a hurry.  
They do not stop this night. Perhaps for fear of the orcs, which may still be lingering, perhaps for fear of the words that might be said by the fire.  
It is past midnight when they reach the village. Thorin takes his nephews to their mothers fireside, and what words are then spoken, are perhaps best forgot.  
Gloin and Gimli, unload the cart, and stable the pony, working together in silence, as they have done so many times. They go into their home, and Gloin recounts the whole sorry tale to his wife, whose first reaction, it has to be said, is relief and anger at her bad son for coming home safe, for having the sense to fight so well, for going off in the first place.

“But I mean it,” she says, “you are never, ever going off anywhere with those two again. They haven’t the sense of a hedgehog between them.”  
“It’s alright, mother,” I say, “I don’t think they’ll ever ask me. And I don’t think their uncle will ever look at me again even.”  
“No,” father sounds tired, “it's going to take me a lot of work to even have him forgive me. I daren’t ever dissent from his ideas - not for a long time. I will have to be a very quiet, obedient member of Thorin’s company for many years I think.”  
I look from one to the other, bewildered;  
“But, father, mother, the elves did save us. What did I do wrong? How could I not thank them for what they did today?”  
They exchange glances, then mother says, gently;  
“You were right to thank them, Gimli-son. But just thank them. Then bid them farewell. Never take more than they give before you know they are giving. Never think they are friends.”  
And father adds;  
“Never trust an elf.” 

B

**Author's Note:**

> Black Speech - karanzol - elves
> 
> Sindarin - yrch - orcs  
> \- mae govannen - well met
> 
> Khudzul - mahumab - shitty
> 
> (According to internet sites, which know more than I do.........)


End file.
